Talking Hurts
by lipstick
Summary: Maedhros is rescued from Thangorodrim, Maglor tries to talk him back to sanity. AU Please read warnings! MaedhrosFingon slash in ch 5
1. Default Chapter

Talking Hurts **Disclaimer:**All characters belong to J.R.R. Tolkien.  
  
**Warning:** Rated R: AU, Non-consensual sexual situations, rape, torture, gory imagery, delirium, abuse of Laws and Customs, self-harm, characters whose opinions are not necessarily the author's own.   
  
**Also note: **Thank you to Finch for my rather bizarrely named healer.  
  


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It hurts to die, but then you fly away. A white flash, a tug, the end of gravity. Scream of wind and whistle from the old days, songs of Valinor. Everyone goes home in the end. The night air falls like a blanket on my naked fëa. As children, we saw eagles in the sky. Riding the stormclouds. Maglor would say they were the birds of Manwë bringing the souls of the Avari to Mandos. We were always so afraid of thunder. There is a morbid streak in the family. We never knew then it was our destiny to ride these black and formless creatures, over and onwards to the very edges of the circles of the world. Lord, bring home the forsaken children. That is how we used to pray, as good children. As Noldor of the Blessed realm. We never knew then we prayed for ourselves.  
  
I am hurtling so fast it is hard to catch my breath. Breath. So souls breathe. It hurts and I wish I could stop.  


***

  
Fingon is dirty. They must have sent him to the mines. Bad luck, son of Fingolfin, but then I always was prettier than you. He is tugging at me but I cannot save him. He tries to put something in my mouth. I spit it back at him. His hands and face are all scratched. Red rimmed eyes. He looks ugly.  
  
There is a ghost here too. Luminous. Trying to hold my arms down with his imitation hröa. I know he is not real because I cannot feel his touch. But he keeps trying.  
  
Fingon pushes the cup so hard against my mouth it is either choke or swallow. I want to swear at him, but I need to know where my brothers are. One by one they captured us. I wonder who is left. If anyone is still fighting, somewhere very far away.  
  
Fingon, you idiot, why are you here?   
  
He swallows from the cup himself. The ghost smiles, the weary smile of one enduring beyond his time. Just die brother. I do not need you now.  
  
The next time he offers me the cup, I do not struggle. I cannot.  
  
They keep saying -safe. Over and over. Safe now.  
  
Maybe they did not permit us to return.  
  
Maybe we are all ghosts.  


***

  
Maglor's voice is stern, as if he fears disobedience.  
  
"You are in Mithrim."  
  
It is true. I can see the bandaged stump of my right arm on the bedsheets.  
  
"Well." I whisper. "Most of me is."  


***

  
My bed is next to a window. If I look up I can see sky. White clouds with grey clouds scuttling over them. When the healers give me herbs to help me sleep, I can see shapes in them. Mountains, forests, seashore, horses, elves, nothing frightening. They look like Míriel's tapestries, the silver grey thread on the white.  
  
If I turn my head so my nose points to the ceiling, I can see sticks pointing up to the sky. Maglor tells me it is a tree. It has no leaves. He said that is normal too. He said that it is because it is winter. In the winter the green things die to come alive again next spring. Apparently, this has been going on for some time.  
  
I do not ask my brother what kind of tree it is. I should like to be well enough to sit up and see for myself. It gives me something to aim for.   
  
Maglor makes me talk. He is a poet. He believes in the power of words. I do not believe in anything.   
  
Talking hurts. But I have to do it, if only to kill the time. I cannot move and I cannot sleep.  
  
Maglor turns me on my side so I lie facing him. He pulls the blankets around me then lies down next to me, holding me like a parcel. At first, I tried to fight him off. I did not like to be touched. It made me feel so very distant, lonely even. But he just held me closer until I felt the warmth from his fëa.   
  
"I thought you were dead." I say. "On the mountain, I saw you die."  
  
I did see him die. It was not a dream. Nothing about the landscape changed at all. The orcs led him out and put him to death on the horizon. In myself, I felt him die.  


***

  
I have insects crawling under my skin. I can feel them. I can see their bites, raised red welts, along my right arm. They scuttle across my legs, my stomach and my shoulders. I can feel them biting under my hair. Maglor turns my face upwards from the pillow. He dabs something cool on the welts on my cheeks. The insects move away from his fingers. When he touches me they become still.  
  
"Are these little creatures still bothering you?" He asks. In the background I can hear a healer tut.   
  
"Yes." I say. "Maybe if I could have a bath they would go away."  
  
"We wash you every day," said the healer. "There are no insects on you."  
  
I ignore her. There were insects. I used to lie on a floor covered with them. I watched them crawl across me, black with red markings. I let them. I was too tired. If I had chased one away another would have taken it's place soon enough. There were spiders too. Hairy, sinewy things, the size of a baby. One dropped on my face when I was trying to sleep. I did pull that off. You cannot let them get their fangs into you. In the mines, you would often see elves with an eye missing. That is how it happened. They let the spiders get their teeth in.  
  
"Or maybe," I add, "if we had some of that acid father used to clean metal. If you could put that on my skin it would kill them. I am sure Curufin must have some."  
  
"Maybe, " said Maglor. He moves his fingers from my face to stroke my hair. I get stroked a lot. I get stroked like an animal that has done well.   
  
After my brother leaves me, the healer holds down my left hand and cuts all the fingernails off.  
  


***

  
My brothers pester the healers when they think I cannot hear. Why is he not healing faster? In Valinor...  
"But we are not in Valinor." The chief healer, an elf called Luinianth, replies.  
  
"Even so."  
  
There is silence. I know even with my eyes unfocused she is shaking her head. She does not wish to tell them. I could.   
  
It is our spirits that give our bodies strength. My fëa died long ago. Without it, my hröa will not heal.  
  
I whisper this to Maglor, later, lying on the bed. My face is almost buried in the pillows. He is raised up on an elbow. Still our faces are only inches apart. That is as far as my voice will carry, sometimes.  
  
There is some more hair stroking. I wish I could tell him I do not like it. But it seems a way to make myself useful at least. If I cannot get well, at least I can lie here and let them stroke me.  
  
An insect bites in my eyebrow, but my fingers are too blunt to kill them now.  
  
"Your spirit is not dead." He said. "I can feel it. It is faint, but it is there."  
  
I was lying face down on the floor, listening to my heartbeat. I was naked, bleeding, covered in filth. The only thing I could feel was my heartbeat. It told me I was still alive. I was so fiercely proud of that soft pumping sound inside me. I was so senselessly glad to be alive. Intoxicating. That is when I knew I was not an elf anymore.  
  
"But it is not an elven spirit."   
  
I know that. I hear my brothers argue too. Rules and kingships and petty bands of Quendi come across the ice, what is to be done? I cannot bring myself to care. It is like something happening thousands of miles away. All I care about is the patterns in the sky and what kind of tree grows outside my window. Feeble-minded.  
  
Also, everybody else is very concerned about my missing hand. It makes me feel like laughing. I can lie on my back and be useless as well with one hand as I can with two.   
  
I continue.  
  
"Something less complicated. Like the spirit of a goat or a sheep." It would explain the constant stroking.  
  
"Fool," Laughs Maglor. "How do you think you would be lying here with a goat's fëa. You would be bleating and out ruining the lawn."  
  
If I had the breath, I would laugh. Breathing is still incredibly hard work.  
  
"Your spirit is damaged. That is why you are not getting well."  
  
So he makes me talk.  
  



	2. Chapter two

Chapter Two   
  
**Warning:** This chapter contains discussion on rape, unpleasant imagery, and is AU   
  


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I close my eyes. That makes beginning easier. It is hard to remember so far back, hard to remember anything before the mountain. It is like someone has put a wire up my nose and severed connections in my brain. They did that in the mines too. I saw them. It was a punishment for incurable elvenesse.   
  
Something moves across my shoulder. I reach up to touch it. Maglor pulls my hand back, holds it on the bed in front of me with his own over it. His skin is pale, shining almost silvery. Mine is dusty, lack-lustre, grey.  
  
The first night, we were still outside. There were stars above me, grass beneath me. I was stripped, marked on my arm, the orcs even tore Mahtan's little copper earrings out of my ears. I was changing ownership.  
  
I was still bleeding a little from the battle. The eyes of the orcs glittered in the firelight. The world was black and red and smelt of smoke. I could not understand their harsh voices then, as I can now, and ...  
  
I pause.  
  
...that frightened me. Being watched, being in the middle of the circle, being the night's entertainment. The orc chieftain stood before me, holding a bloodied curved blade before my face. He grabbed the back of my hair and forced my head downwards. Then, roughly, he started cutting. One by one my plaits fell down. The company jeered. They laughed even harder when he was done and I lifted my shorn head to the crowd.   
  
I wanted to keep a braid as a memory of what I once was. So even in if in years to come I could not remember why or how things were ever different, I would at least have something to hold in my hands to prove they were. My fingers inched towards them. I forced them still. Even then, I knew it was not wise to show signs of wanting anything.  
  
Then someone threw me a coarse shift and the company broke up. I lay with my face on the grass and wished tomorrow would not come.  
  
Later, in Angband, I was told this was done because of resourceful Avari using their braids to hang themselves. I am still not sure I believe that. I think they did to make you feel bad in yourself. To make you feel ugly and humiliated.   
  
I stop. I'm out of breath from talking.  
  
It is not the worst they do to that end. But this was only the beginning.  
  
Maglor squeezes my hand.   
  
It does not register.  


***

  
I'm lying on my front. My face is resting in the crook of my elbow. Maglor's fingers are on the nape of my neck. The tension there is making my head hurt. He is running his fingers up, down, under my hair and along my shoulders. I am facing the mattress, talking into my headache.   
  
I am telling Maglor about the floor, the one with insects on it. I am lying in the filth waiting for the next session of torture. A respite. There is no fixed length of time to these breaks. Sometimes they are less than an hour. Sometimes I can almost cheat myself into believing they have forgotten me. There is no system, no order. Then again I have no way of measuring time so they may be of a fixed length after all. It may just be the altering states of my body and mind. What am I feeling? I hurt. What am I thinking? I am trying not to. Thinking disturbs my rest, and I need all the strength these pauses give me. To think means to accept it will start all over again.   
  
At least, I know what to expect. That is both a blessing, and a curse.   
  
I know what is happening has not broken me yet. If I can squeeze what peace I can from these breaks, I know there is a chance. The punishment may yet kill my body before my mind becomes corrupted. That is my one hope. I dare not think of how long that will take. If I despair, I play into their hands.   
  
I stop.   
  
For a very long time there is silence. Maglor's fingers continue their soothing journey across my back.   
  
Finally, he says:   
  
"What then?"   
  
I shake my head.   
  
"Can you really not say?"   
  
"The inevitable."   
  
"What do you mean?"   
  
"Someone, I do not know who, although they felt, smelt and sounded like an orc held me against the floor and had sex with me."   
  
That is not what happened. To describe that as sex is wrong. It had nothing to do with love or creation. It was something completely different. Something there is no word for.   
  
Telling the story is no use at all.   
  
"He forced you?"   
  
"I do not know."   
  
"What do you mean?"   
  
"He just came and lay on top of me. I really did not know what he was intending to do until he did it. And when he was I know I did not scream. I did not think to. All I thought at the time was this is hurting, make it stop."   
  
That too is only partways truth..   
  
What I was thinking was please, please do not let this kill me.   
  
I know it should have done. I have read the law books. My soul should have fled my body. "To take another's wife by force" is how they quaintly describe it. At the time, I thought it meant some kind of stealing. It conjured images of Avari in masks on horseback, throwing maidens over their shoulders and riding away into the woods.   
  
I did not think it meant that.   
  
But I also wonder, how many of our lore-master's have lain beneath yurch, felt their stinking breath panting against their faces, felt that dry scraping ache, inside them. None, I suspect. So how can they claim knowledge in the matter? If someone had told me before that forced sex could happen I would probably have said quite confidently that I should die were someone to do it to me.   
  
I know differently now.   
  
"I lay there and I prayed to Eru or Morgoth or anyone to let me live. Not to let that beast be an end of me."   
  
"Because of the oath?"   
  
"No. Because of me."   
  
That is true. I know I could salvage some heroism from this. If I had thought of Atar, or Finwë as I lay there and said no, I will bear this because I am honour bound to avenge those I have loved, I could escape with some honour. But I did not.   
  
"Do you think that makes me unnatural?"   
  
"I think it makes you a Son of Fëanor."   
  
I smile into the dark. I can still do that. Despite myself, it gives me a shiver of excitement, to know I can still smile. If Morgoth had had his wish, I should never be able to smile again. My smile is proof that he can be defeated.   
  
I keep the smile secret for now. It would not do to have Maglor see me grin after what I have just told him. One day I shall show him my smile, and he shall see for himself the hope in it, and the hate. He shall know all this endless talking has not been in vain. Together we have won a victory, a tiny one, but a victory no less.  


***

  
Luinianth is sitting beside me when I come round. It hurts to be awake. I hiss a little at the pain, despite myself. For a long time, she is silent and motionless. This makes me angry. I know it is within her power to give me medicine to take this pain away, but she does not. She sits, I suffer, it continues.  
  
Finally, she bends forward and looks into my face. I thought for a moment she was checking to see I was awake. She is not. She is looking hard into my eyes, reading what is within them as if it were a treatise on the uses of herbs. If I were stronger, I would shove her away.  
  
"You do not remember how many." She said.  
  
"No." I need not ask how many of what.  
  
"That much is written in your eyes."  
  
I nod.  
  
"It is nothing to be ashamed of. In Angband, the power of Morgoth holds elven spirits captive within their hroa. You could not escape." She pauses.  
  
I sigh. Not the power of Morgoth alone, I think to myself.  
  
"Here you are free. You no longer need to suffer."  
  
"If you do not wish for me to suffer, perhaps you would kindly give me another of those sleeping draughts."   
  
"You are damaged and your injuries require a greater healer than I. Only Námo Mandos can cure the hurts done to your fea. In his halls, you may yet find peace."   
  
"But I am not in Mandos. I am in the lands of Middle-earth and I came here seeking war, not peace."   
  
"You have the strong will of your father."   
  
I do not know if this is true. If I have a fire within me, it is beyond my control.   
  
Luinianth continues,   
  
"I can help you return. It will not hurt. It will be just like falling asleep."   
  
"How do you know?"   
  
She does not, that much is clear from the fact she ignores me.   
  
"How well do you think you will be able to lead elves to war, damaged as you are? Your hurt will corrupt you. It is your duty under the laws of the Eldar to return and seek healing."   
  
"It was my duty under the Laws of the Eldar not to slay my own kind."   
  
"Let it rest my lord, your place is now in the Halls of Waiting. It shall be a hard fight for vengeance, we shall need all who continue to be strong in body and mind. "   
  
"At least, I know the worst that our oath can demand of us. Could that not make me more prepared to fight than any?"   
  
"The unspeakable has been done to you Maedhros, and that fact is plain to see for any elf who cares to look into your eyes. Can you live with that?"   
  
I pause.   
  
I should like to die.   
  
I cannot.   
  
"Yes, I shall live with that." I say.   
  
She continues talking, like a canary, chirping some by-rote opinion or other. Eventually I can stand it no longer.   
  
"Luinianth," I say softly "Be quiet."   
  
She looks shocked.   
  
"I would like you to bring me something to help the pain."   
  
She looks at me. I think there is a faint hint of fear or disgust in her eyes.   
  
"It is your place to heal, not to judge." I remind her.   
  
"I know my own calling." She replies, bitterly.   
  
"Then I, Maedhros Nelyafinwë, High King of the Noldor command you, as a servant of my household and a subject under my rule. Hold your tongue and bring me something to stop this agony."   
  
The liquid is too hot, it burns my lips. I suspect Luinianth has done this on purpose. As she gives me little sips of the bitter draught, I relax. I huddle down somewhere warm, somewhere beneath all the dirt that is ingrained into every inch of my body. I have to fight myself to keep from weeping at the relief.   
  
I feel as if I have walked a very long way in these last few minutes.   
  
There is now no escape. I know I must learn to stand again, I must learn to concentrate when my brothers talk of politics. I must face the terror of being out in the open, of returning to battle once more. I must swallow food again and remember how to hold a sword. Maglor will help me. He is left handed by the will of Iluvatar.   
  
I must do all these things, because I have crossed the border. I have chosen to live. But first, I must rest.   
  
TBC. 


	3. Chapter three

**Disclaimer:**All characters belong to J.R.R. Tolkien.  
  
**Warning: ** This is seriously AU. Non-con sex. Slightly gory imagery.  
  
  


Maglor has not asked about Thangorodrim. For that, at least, I am grateful. Events, even terrible events can be comprehended. Nothingness is beyond description. However long I was there for, I was there forever. One memory, repeated over and over, gasping for breath.

It does not sound like much. I am sorry I cannot describe it in any way that will make another Quendi understand. My legs are broken. They have healed all-shapes. Luinianth has told me they shall have to be broken again and re-set. 

I know, Lady Healer. You did try and save me from this. But that does not mean you were right.

My legs are broken because I smashed them against the rock-face. To try for another kind of pain. To try and make something else happen. Breathing in, breathing out, scrabbling with bleeding feet against the precipice for a foothold that was not there. I dragged the whole of my body up by my right arm every time, every time I stole a little sip of poisoned air.

And still I kept breathing. My spirit sobbed to rest, just rest and my body kept refusing. It was the instinct of an animal, something base and deep. I could not stop breathing.

The leg thrashing must have happened fairly early on, when I still had some strength spare to struggle with. Perhaps it became easier after that, when my Hröa became to weak to tense against the agony. Or perhaps I just lost the wits to comprehend pain. I know I hallucinated wildly, although not all of these amazing visions turned out to be untrue. There was a little blood then, bubbling and snapping around my lips. And my vision darkened.

The last thing I remember was the stench. Above the reek of Angband's fumes, the smell of decaying flesh. I remembered it from long ago, Fingon and I, finding the den of a fox who had curled up to die. My hröa was rotting around my spirit. Then there was nothing until the singing in the dark.

By then, I am sure I was a waste of a good arrow. 

  
**********************************  


It occurs to me I have rather a lot of brothers. I do not know if this is yet another of those dreamy observations caused by the healer's cures, or if it has only struck me now, when I cannot run away from them at will.

Today, I am playing host to Curufin. He, at least, keeps his hands to himself.

"It is a rowan tree," He says, noticing the direction of my gaze. "They mainly grow in the mountains to the south of here."

I nod. 

"I planted the one here for Celebrimbor. He is very fond of them."

"How long have I been here?" I ask. 

"Three weeks."

"How long has Fingolfin been in Middle-earth?"

"Five years."

"What?"

"Five solar years. Half a Valinorian Year. Years have now been shortened due to a surplus of events."

"Curufin, I heard him. I saw them come over the hills and ride past the gates of Angband."

"You also saw Maglor die."

"But Fingolfin really did follow us to Middle-earth. Maglor told me."

"You could not have been chained to a mountain for five years, Maitimo. It would have killed you."

"It does not appear to have."

"It is impossible."

"I saw Fingolfin, honestly brother." If I were not lying down, I would be in grave danger of screeching.

"Then how, pray tell are you here to speak of it?"

I am not lying to you, Curufin. I can prove it.

"I was hung on the Thangorodrim, eight days after Morgoth received your final letter."

"Then," Curufin stops and looks at me with a kind of wonder, "You were there for a lot longer than five years."

"Tree-years or Solar?" I ask.

"It does not matter."

He is right. Impossibly long is impossibly long however you measure it. Agony has its own unique timescale. It cares nothing for sun or moon.

"Why do you live?"

"I do not know." I pause. "Perhaps the Lords of the West have unfinished business with me yet."

  
*****************************************************  


Something very unusual is happening to my skin. I am peeling. I must look peculiar. Looking at my arms, I can see patches of grey skin hanging loose, tearing away. I leave pieces of dead skin behind me when I turn over in bed. They lie on the mattress like the wings of a crushed dragonfly. 

The new skin underneath is pink and smooth, like the skin beneath a scab. Luinianth slathers the baby skin in ointment. If the heir of Fëanor has decided to live on in an orcish state, she at least will make sure as little of the yurch as possible is visible to the naked eye. Like Akasân, she too puts henna in my hair. Like him, she is preparing me to play a role. 

I can sit up now, although doing so for too long makes my back and hips ache. I sit up in bed and practice writing. I copy pages and pages of the same letter, over and over, like when I was a child. I remember it being frustrating then, and it is equally frustrating now. 

I write my name. Maedhros. Sheets and sheets of paper, covered in clumsy approximation of what I am. What I was not permitted to be.

This obsession clearly bothers Maglor. I am cross from the effort. My explanations are somewhat more terse than they should be.

"It is my name Maglor." I snap. I doubt you realise how important names are until yours is taken from you."

"Of course I realise how important names are."

Of course he does. He is a poet. But I feel curiously determined to be unfriendly.

"We were supposed to be nameless, identifiable only by the numbers hacked into our arms or our ankles. But we gave ourselves names in the foul speech we were forced to use. It was a Quendi trait, but it brought us closer to orcishness even in our rebellion." 

Then again, what do I know? I was in the mines for a few weeks at most. I saw enough there to make me grateful I should never return.

"What did they call you?"

"Drìznak."

"What does that mean?"

"It cannot be translated." Thankfully.

What I was, was Drìznak. I think Akasân had intended that to be my fate from the outset. I was merely sent to the mines to make sure I had no delusions about the alternatives.

"I do not believe that."

"It means an elf-thrall who is passed around among the ruling elite for sex."

I think I should have broken that to my brother more gently. He sits for a long time, eyes wide, saying nothing.

"You?"

"Me."

He looks pale.

"Did you think of that? Did the thought occur to you at all?"

"No."

"Maybe you should think more, Maglor."

Maybe you should think before you send letters to Morgoth abandoning me to my fate. A fate you cannot even comprehend.

I do not know if I have said the last words aloud, or if I thought them so forcefully my brother read my mind. He reaches out to my hair.

"Do not touch me." I say with poison in my voice. "Do not think for one moment a little tenderness from you now can repair the damage you have done."

Maglor just sits there looking stung. Then he gets up and leaves me to my temper.

The next letter I write, I snap the quill. So I sit and hold my knees instead, sick with rage.

I know I am being unreasonable.

I know I would have done the same in his position.

I know I would do the same to him, knowing what I do now.

Is this what was meant by the doom - Treachery of kin unto kin?

At least for the mariners of Alqualondë it was over fairly quickly.

After a while, the storm passes. We are cursed and we shall just have to get on with it.

That night Maglor slept in my bed. We used to do that as children, when our parents fought or there was thunder in the sky. He curled up against me like a dormouse and I stroked his hair while he cried.

  



	4. Chapter four

_**Warning:** Non-con sexual activity._  


It rushes up through me like a wave of icy water and there is nothing I can do except throw myself past my sleeping brother and vomit over the side of the bed. It is convulsive, unstoppable, I am hanging upside down bringing up mouthful after mouthful of curdled sleeping draught. It comes up with such force it squeezes out my nose.

I feel a hand gently pulling my hair out my face, arms around me, holding me up so I am no longer choking. I whimper a little against my will. Maglor rubs my stomach. The spasms begin to ease. I spit up the last of it then collapse against him. He reaches for a cloth from the table beside us and wipes my nose and mouth.

I moan a little in disgust. Maglor breaks free of me.

"I should call someone to clear that up." He says.

I collapse back against the pillows. Relief floods me. I am shivering, but I feel the tension in my body ease. For a few moments, I feel almost well.

Maglor returns with a mop and bucket. He props them against the bedside table and turns to me.

"Feel better for that?"

I nod and smile weakly.

"At least you missed the bed sheets." He looks over at the mop. 

"It just did not seem right to start waking people up." He adds.

I am glad Maglor is preoccupied with playing chambermaid. My eyes are still watering. 

After Maglor has disposed of the mop, he returns to bed and pulls the blankets round me. I am still shuddering, but I feel warm inside, hot even.

"Are you tired?" I whisper.

"I think I am quite awake now." He replies.

"I do not feel altogether sane."

He strokes me a little. For once, it feels pleasant. 

"How so?"

"I feel like I might burn up from the inside."

"You are just frustrated. It will feel better once you are on your feet again."

"I dare say it will. But it is not that."

I sigh.

"I have felt like this before."

I can hear the blood roar in my ears. I have an irrational urge to start screaming. But I doubt I have the strength.

"When?"

"When I first was sent to the mines." I swallow.

Maglor takes that as a signal to pour me a glass of water. I take it. It helps wash away the sickly sweet taste of vomit. 

"Are you too tired for this?" He asks.

"No," He replies. "Are you?"

I shake my head and begin.

When I first came to the mines, I noticed there were more elves than orcs. No Akasâns either. An occasional Balrog would do the rounds on a tour of duty. But mainly, it was us quendi. That gave me hope.

The others were Avarin. They ignored me as if I were poisonous. Even the orcs kept their distance. In the dark, I shone.

I lie against my brother and let the words fall out without caring for meaning or order. 

We were not permitted speech, but we were given weapons. I would look into the eyes of those working beside me, and question without words. Why do you not fight? And they shrank from me. Their spirits were broken. They kept their heads down in my presence, knowing I would cause trouble.

And I burned with light. I burned with the light inside me of the trees of Valinor. I was white with flame and the orcs shuddered in my presence as they did in the presence of Balrogs.

We slept as we fell, in front of the work faces, when the orcs sounded the bell for rest. I did not sleep. I lay with my knees hugged to my chest against the chill and I dreamed, awake.

I was alive, I was unbroken, and I was in the very heart of my enemies' stronghold. Father could not force the gates with the might of our armies behind him, but here I was, a coiled serpent poised to bite beneath the armour. Morgoth Brauglir, I will rip out your heart from right within you.

I felt extraordinarily powerful. Like a Vala. Like the flame imperishable itself. I was here, uncorrupted, and I felt dangerous. I hewed at the rock as if I were boring down the foundations of Angband. I was alive, tingling, fingers against stone as if it would reveal to me secret fault-lines from which the dark palace could be overthrown. I listened for the sounds of whispers, dissent whatever little treacheries may be carried on the heavy air. I watched the bowed elves around me, who feared my brightness as if it were something they dare not want. I hunted for tiny signs of growing courage.

We were not permitted speech, but they spoke all the same. At first, I did not recognise the words, although after a while with repetition and my newly sharpened wits I began to piece this whispered language together. The words were Avarin, the Old Speech from Cuivienen harshened and condensed from being hissed in whispers. After I had been there a month, the hissing got noticeably louder 

The thralls still would not look at me. But they began to look at each other, even when the orcs lashed their backs and gave the command "Heads down." The shame, the knowledge of their brokenness had kept them from looking into each others faces before. They dared at least to look and I knew things were beginning.

The way they held their hammers and axes changed too. They held them with more skill, more reverence, as if it had finally occurred to them these were weapons with which they could win freedom.

The air became less chill. I was now not the only one burning. Others too were waiting for a secret sign, a movement in the stone, a whisper to travel the galleries. Everything felt taught and stretched as several thousand quendi strained towards breaking point.

In the dark of Angband burnt the Silmarils. I was so very close. We burnt together, in harmony. 

I felt deadly. I had to strike, soon. I did not care if I died in the attempt. I ached from crouching for the kill.

When they came for me, I was working at the rock-face as usual. I was so full of nervous tension, I sensed them coming up from behind. Two orcs. I swung my axe twice. They died before they could touch me. The hissing stopped. I turned from the work-face with my pick in my hands, waiting. I was the only one.

The others cowered to the rock, pretending not to notice anything unusual was going on.

Six more came. But they could not withstand the light in my eyes and were dazzled even before they approached me. I lunged forward from the two at my sides and brought the pick-axe down through a thirds skull. Blood shot through the air. I swung left and put aimed through the staggering yurch's neck. The orc to the right had moved behind my back and I slammed him against the rock-face hard enough to daze him while I dealt with the others. Then he too met his fate.

The elves beside me were still working, but now they were visibly tensed. They knew the signal had come.

For one moment I really did think the spark would flame.

Then the orcs attacked in full strength. Down the line I saw others half turn. One flinched too wildly and was hewn down by a scimitar. They moved on towards me. The air was taut, and I was ready. I needed to fight. 

The Silmarils flashed again in my eyes as they advanced upon me. One, two, three fell and I hoped, I knew in a moment the others would be beside me. When a fourth orc fell the sounds of mining ceased. 

As I drew the pick from the skull of the fifth, three others grabbed the shaft and pulled it from me. I leapt at the orc before me, bearing down with my weight, knocking him to the ground. I hit at the one beside me with my fist, he staggered and fell. Hands curled about me from the sides, scorched by my flesh. I turned and ripped his throat out with my teeth. Two more advanced and pinned me to the rock-face with their bodies. My hands reached out to choke. Someone threw some kind of sack over my head.

I lost the light. The orcs grip around my wrists became faster, more sure. I was no longer aflame.

I felt the manacles bite against my arms.

I heard a pick strike the rock-face. The clatter of mining resumed. My legs were shackled and I was carried away.

There was a room off from the main galleries, made by an iron gateway being put before a side tunnel. It was used by the orc overseers, mainly for punishments. There was a lot you could be punished for there. Talking to each other. Breaking equipment or tardy work. Sharing rations. I think they just punished everyone on cycle of duty and made up the excuses as they went along.

No-one had dared punish me yet. I turned my will to tempered steel. I was put down on a wooden table. They chained my arms above my head, pulling the sack away. I vowed I would not scream. I would not betray the dreams I had freshly awakened with visions of horror.

They did it with the axe handle. You cannot give up your soul to a chunk of wood, can you? 

I did scream in the end. They would have killed me otherwise. I bought my life by wordlessly crying out the hopelessness of rebellion. I screamed, I pleaded, I begged.

When it was over, they untied me and left. I struggled to sit up and looked down between my legs. I was bleeding violently. It soaked into the tabletop and gathered in an expanding pool on the floor beneath. My legs were numb.

"They have killed me," I thought. "They shall be in trouble for that."

Then I fell into darkness.

  
  
**Note:** Akasân - From the Valarin Akasân = He says (usually of Eru Iluvatar). Apparently the Black Speech contains some borrowings from Valarin, probably due to Morgoth or Sauron. I like to think it would amuse them to name their thrall-masters after the command of God. 


	5. Chapter five

**Warning:** _Discussion of non-consensual sexual situations, slash, and mildly S&M towards the ending of the chapter. (Although neither character would consciously see it that way.)  _

I finish speaking. Maglor pulls me closer and touches my hair a little. I lie still, trying to relax, and he knows the talking is over for tonight. We lie in silence, watching the stars blink in the frosty air. 

"Could you open the window?" I ask.

"I could," he replies. "The wind was from the west today, and the air was clear, without poison. But you may be cold."

"Open it." I say. "It feels close. I think fresh air would help."

He nods, then leans over me to unbolt the lock. He sits up against the frame and I rest back on him. I can breathe easier in the cool breeze. The chill is soothing to my hot face. Maglor pulls the blankets closer around us. I sigh a little. It feels good. 

A dying quarter moon is in the sky, a thin veil of mist floats gently just above the horizon. There is life in this outdoor air. I feel very peaceful. I do not sleep, it does not matter. This is rest enough. 

"There," he says "Does that feel better?" 

I nod and snuggle deeper against him. We stay like this, in silence, for a very long time.

It is me who hears it first, the sound of hooves, of a rider. Maglor feels me tense, and strokes my arm gently.

"What is it?"

"Someone is coming."

"No brother, no one is …"

But then he hears it too. We sit up, two faces in a window, alert as children, waiting for our visitor to make themselves known.

I know who it is, even through the dark. I know from just the silhouette, featureless against the night. I would guess that form anywhere.

"It is Fingon." I say.

"You have the eyes of an eagle, Maedhros."

"No," I say. "I just know my cousin."

I start to shiver, despite myself.  I am not cold, but I am shuddering violently. I try to master myself, and fail. My limbs will not listen, they want to shake and shake and nothing will stop them.

Maglor moves to shut the window. I stop him.

"I am not cold." I say, as steadily as I can manage.

"But you are shaking."

"I do not want him in the house Maglor, not now, not tonight, not ever."

Maglor looks confused.

"He saved your life, brother. He has been kinder to us than we had any right to deserve."

"He saved my life because he wants to sleep with me." I say.

"You are fey."

"I am not fey, Maglor." I sigh. "I think it is a measure of my worth that the only person willing to attempt my rescue would want repayment of that sort." 

Maglor frowns and hold me a little closer.

"Fingon would never ask for such a thing. He is an elf, a Noldor such as ourselves. He would never ask of you what you would not give freely."

"But that is what he wants, whether he asks for it or not. And that is what repulses me."

"I think, you are still thinking as a prisoner of Angband."

"Perhaps, but I do not know of any other way to think anymore."

"Shh," says Maglor softly. "Shh."

Very well, brother. You have wanted me to speak the truth, to hold nothing back. Now I shall tell you a truth that may not be to your liking. 

"I know he wishes to sleep with me because he has done so in the past. He probably has every right to expect I will again. I was not an innocent when I was taken to Angband. Nothing worse was done to me than I did willingly before. Fingon and I were lovers." I tail off.

For a moment, everything is painfully still. Then I feel my brother's arms squeeze against me, and I know, whatever his private thoughts are on this, for now, Maglor is prepared to accept.

 "You are fey," He says. "To speak of what was done for love, and what was done to destroy as if there were no difference."

"If there once was a difference, I do not feel it now."

Maglor runs his fingers across my own, I wish for tears that do not come. 

"Maybe, in a while, that too will heal."

"He frightens me."

 "No" Said Maglor, and his eyes were curiously hard." "It is not him that frightens you. It is your own desire you are afraid of. It is the chance that that may lead you back to where you are so afraid to go."

Maglor's words are only partly true. I do still care for my cousin. I care for him more than anything in this world, little brothers excepted. But the thought of his touch, or his kiss, or even a look of desire that cannot be hidden upon his face fills me with a cold that is worse than my own death. To feel his touch, and to feel nothing, as I know I would, is pain more than I can bear.

"I do not know Maglor, I do not know what to do or how it will be, or anything. I feel as though I traded my rights to love when I traded my body for safety from the mines. I only know I cannot face him."

"Then I shall see to it you do not have to. Not tonight, anyway. I will tell him you are resting. And I shall see to it that our well read healer gives you something to make that true."

He rises and shuts the window, then makes sure I am lying comfortably on the bed.

"Thank you."  I say. "Not just for that, for… well, not…"

"It is nothing," he replies, then gives me a wry look. "I too have been in love."

And at least, he would add, but for sounding cruel, at least Fingon still lives.

"And for tolerating your cantankerous, sickly brother. I know my words are often harsh these days. It is just nothing seems to make sense anymore."

He bends over me and strokes the hair back from my fore-head.

"Shh," he says softly. "You are the King and I am the poet. It is your place to make things happen, mine to make sense of them."

And with that, he leaves me.

                                                                                    *******************************

Fingon came in my room later that night.  I knew it was him. Luinianth would have brought a light. He walked over to my bed and I froze, playing dead, with my face turned away from him, buried in the pillows. 

He sat beside me while I desperately tried to keep my breathing even. He sat beside me for too long.

Before he left, he bent down, twisted my hair away from the nape of my neck and kissed there. His lips felt clammy. I felt terrified.

But I also felt something else, something sharp, travelling down my bruised spine. Something that almost made me dare to turn round and declare myself. No I said firmly. No the rest of me said. Do not take the risk. 

So I lay there, still as china while he walked away.

                                                                                   ****************************

They told me Fingon wished to see me the next morning, when they brought me yet another breakfast I refused to eat. They keep trying. The thought of food still makes me feel faintly disgusted. I have been living off milk, chicken-broth and honey dissolved in warm water, mostly coaxed inside me by Maglor. It has done some good. There is just the trace of flesh under my skin now. I no longer look like a carcass. Yesterday, I was feeling a little proud of my new wholesome appearance. Today, I wish I had no flesh at all.

I nodded my assent to my cousin's visit. I also asked for some clothes. The tunic they brought me was deep red, as if my very presence had come to remind them of blood.

                                                                                    ****************************

Fingon enters the room looking awkward. I knew Maglor must have spoken with him. He looks worriedly into my face and I stare back defiantly. Go on Findekano, see what you can read. See if the goods are still acceptable, if the marring can be accommodated, or if they should be thrown away to start again.

I take it we are not going to be talking about the weather. There is still enough residual respect between us to not have to make pleasantries.

Unfortunately, that leaves us with absolutely nothing to say to each other.

It occurs to me I probably should say thank you.

"Why are you laughing?" he asks.

"Because I have just realised how idiotic thank you is going to sound."

He does not smile. He looks troubled. Why, I do believe the silly creature has been agonising over whether or not he did the right thing. 

"Well, do you think I should wish myself dead?"

"I would never wish you dead."

"That is not what I asked."

"No, but I thought you might."

"And why might I wish myself dead, Findekano?"

"Because you have been raped, Maitimo."

I have to admire my cousin for that. He is my match in plain speaking any day. And because he knows me too well to believe I should fret over a hand.

"They did not all force me."

"No?" He asks.

"No, after the first couple of times I gave in and let whoever wanted to sleep with me as long as I did not have to go back to the mines."

He nods. I have no idea why I am speaking like this. Still he might as well know the truth.

"And you wish me shocked by this?"

"I wish you to know this."

"I love you."

"And what does that change?"

"I want you to know that."

"And what exactly do you think love means to me right now?"

"You tell me."

"It is a spell which does not work. It is poetry that does not touch the heart. It is music that has grown stale with age and repetition."

"You are enough to beat Maglor in high-flung speech."

I close my eyes.

"It is something that one says to mark the difference between acts of affection and acts of violence."

I swallow.

"I do not know how I shall ever feel that difference again."

Fingon looked at me intently.

"Do you want to try?"

"What do you mean?"

"You are telling me this for a reason, Maitimo. If you had given up all hope you would be silent."

He bends down and kisses my cheek, gently. I feel it.

"You are telling me this," he continues, "Because you wish for it to be different. And yet you do not know how to make it so."

"No, I do not."

"It is enough for me that you wish."

He laughs.

"How long have you lain in bed for now?"

"Six weeks," I reply. "Or so my brothers tell me."

"Do you not get bored?"

"I think I am loosing my mind."

"Come on then, up you get."

"What?"

"I wish to take a walk with you."

"Findekano, I…"

"I walked across the Helcaraxe for you. And do not deceive yourself. Whatever drove my Father on it was you that kept my feet moving. It was you that kept me leading my people forward, knowing that many would die in the attempt. I think the least I can ask of you is to walk with me to the bedroom door and back."

"I did not ask you to."

"No, but I am here now, and I have a right to exact revenge. On your feet, son of Feanaro."

"I do not have the strength."

"Cousin, I can walk across the grinding ice to be beside you. I can dare the fume and might of Angband to bring you to safety. But I cannot make you heal, and I cannot shield you from the pain of learning to live again. That is something you must do for yourself. Dare you risk the pain?"

I swung my legs awkwardly over the side of the bed.

"I think you are going to have to hold me, Findekano. I am not sure I can stand up on my own."

He holds me, one arm behind my back, the other around my waist and pulls me upright. I feel very light-headed at the new position, I can feel sweat pricking under my hair. I think I might be sick again.

Fingon continues to hold me. I breathe deeply, trying to adjust to standing. 

"Am I hurting you?"

I nod. I do not think I can speak.

"Do you want me to put you down?"

"No." I grit my teeth. I have come this far.

"Alright. I am going to take a step backwards and you are going to walk with me."

I nod again. 

He is hurting me but I trust him to. 

He moves backwards and I step in towards him. We must look like lunatic dancers. The very sensation of ground beneath my feet is so strange it makes me shiver.

He keeps stepping backwards. I keep walking forwards into his arms.

It makes my hips ache. My back feels as though someone is running fire along it. My feet sting every time I force them down onto the floor.

I am resting all my weight on his shoulders. Sweat drips into my eyes. And still we keep walking forward.

He is holding me and he is pulling me in towards him.

He will hold me, and I shall feel safe despite the pain.

We shall go back there, together. We shall never be innocent again. I do not wish to be.

I cannot change what I am, or what I know, and I would not, even though the Valar themselves might hold me accursed for cherishing such knowledge. I choose to know my own strength. 

"I love you," I whisper.

"I know," he replies.

And that is how it shall be between us. I shall keep walking towards you. There will be fear and there will be hurt. There will be times when I cannot tell your hands from the hands of those that tortured me. There shall be nights where you shall touch my skin and I will not be there. I would risk all that to stand beside you.

For that is how much I love you, son of Fingolfin.  And against our love no power of darkness shall stand, not even the will of Morgoth himself. 

When we finally reach the door Fingon takes his hands from around me, and I stand before him unsupported. I smile faintly when I remember standing straight I am taller than him.  He has mercilessly dragged me across my own bed chamber, but now he kisses the smile with tenderness.

"We made it," he says.

Yes Findekano, I think. We shall indeed make it.

I think I am going to leave the story here for now. I may revise it, edit it, add more chapters in future. But for now it has taken quite a large chunk of my creative energy getting this far, and the elves are happy, so I think I will leave them where they are.


End file.
